


An Itch You're Gonna Scratch

by fleurofthecourt



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Chicken Pox, Christmas, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Nick comes down with chickenpox, he starts to give in to how much he enjoys Monroe's touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Itch You're Gonna Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry I subject you all to my love of sickfic...

Nick sifted through the rice and pushed the marinated vegetables to the side of the plate. He knew that he really needed to eat something substantial if he were going to be doing the weapons training he planned on doing the next day -- not to mention the Christmas decorating Monroe would no doubt insist he help with afterwards. He just wasn’t hungry, at all. 

He didn’t get it either; he’d barely eaten anything earlier. He thought maybe a bagel on the run as he and Hank went from one suspect’s house to the next. It had been a long, tiring day. One which his muscles were vehemently protesting, and one which, at the end of, he should have felt famished. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t like the stir-fry just because I added melon,” Monroe said, eying Nick wearily from across the table. “Come on, man. I’ve really tried hard not to go too far out of the normal guy’s comfort zone after the whole beet and arugula salad debacle. This should be in it.” 

“I still don’t know what you were thinking with that salad, but, no, this is really good,” Nick said, and that much was true. The stir-fry, though a bit surprisingly sweet, was delicious; he just didn’t want any of it. In an attempt to prove this, he fought down a few more bites before admitting as much and excusing himself. Monroe watched him curiously as he sheepishly fled from the kitchen. 

Then, after staring at some paperwork made his head swim, he decided he would just have to call it an early night and hope he wasn’t coming down with something. Maybe, just maybe, he would feel better in the morning. 

But he didn’t. If anything, he felt worse. If he had added his symptoms up the day before, he likely would have marked that he was probably coming down with the flu. He now strongly suspected that he had a fever, and that fit well with that theory. However, the way his skin was starting to prickle and itch everywhere did not. 

As he mused on this, with his eyes pressed closed against the intruding sunlight, a light tap sounded on his bedroom door. 

“Hey Nick, were you planning on getting up or what? I don’t want to assume you’re planning on sleeping until noon or anything, but it’s looking likely based, on well, some of my clocks. You’ve definitely overslept the whole training in the woods thing we had planned, but I was kind of hoping you’d still be up for helping with the Christmas decorations.” 

Nick groaned, pulled himself up against the headboard, and observed that there were little red bumps spreading across, at least, his arms and hands, which appeared to be the source of the itching. 

He’d had chickenpox when he was little, hadn’t he? He remembered nothing concrete, but...he couldn’t have it a second time, right? So he jumped to the next logical conclusion. 

“I’m not sure I’m up for that right now,” Nick said. “Er, Monroe...is it possible for me to catch some kind of Wesen disease?” 

The next thing Nick knew Monroe, having all but run up the short flight of stairs, was crouched over him, examining him intently.

“Oh God, Nick. Don’t scare me like that,” Monroe said, starting to run his hand through his curls before reconsidering and placing his hand on Nick’s forehead. 

“Scare you?” Nick asked, leaning into Monroe’s touch ever so slightly, appreciating it more than he felt like he should. Then again, that was always how he felt when Monroe touched him. 

“The only Wesen disease that I know you have any direct experience with is fluvus pestilentia, and I know we know what to do about it, but it’s still deadly, and...well, I’m just relieved it’s not that,” Monroe said as he brushed Nick’s hair back and began tracing his finger over bumps that Nick hadn’t realized were there. 

“Yeah, me too,” Nick said, shivering slightly at Monroe’s extended touch. “So does that mean you know what these little red bumps mean?” 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you’re coming down with chickenpox,” Monroe said, with an apologetic smile. “There’s not really anything else that looks like that. I guess you didn’t have it when you were a kid?” 

“I thought I did. I don’t remember for sure though,” Nick said as he started to rub roughly at his skin.

“Oh dude, you would remember,” Monroe said. “And not vaguely. Tell me in a couple days if you are ever going to forget this. But first things first, let’s get you to someone who can prescribe you some antivirals. I’ve heard this isn’t fun if you’re over the age of, I don’t know, twelve.” 

“Is it fun before that?” Nick asked, and Monroe just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Then why Monroe had been standing outside his door in the first place came back to him, “What about Christmas decorating?” 

“Yeah, because you’re going to be a lot of use hanging up lights at the moment... now I really hope you’re dressed under there, because you’re getting up regardless,” Monroe said, taking both of Nick’s hands in his own. “...you are, aren’t you?” 

The part of Nick that knew he was close to covered in small, red bumps was glad he was wearing boxers. The part of him that was now leaning into Monroe’s shoulder, breathing in the heady smell of coffee and wood, was not. 

*** 

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Monroe said, watching Nick warily. Nick, miserable though he was, was sick of being sick and cooped up in his room and had insisted that he help Monroe with at least some of the Christmas decorating. So far, he had managed to get Monroe to agree to him sitting on the floor between the couch and coffee table, taking ornaments out of their boxes, while he hung the lights on the tree. “I mean, it’s not you trying to fire a gun at a Siegbarste while zonked out on painkillers or anything, but still.” 

“Monroe, I’m fine. My fever’s down at the moment, and,” Nick said, “besides, if I’m doing something else with my hands, I’m less likely to scratch at the pox.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know how you haven’t honed the common sense to stop doing that,” Monroe said teasingly. “You’ve had three days and like two tubes worth of calamine lotion.” 

Two tubes of calamine that Monroe had blissfully gently rubbed into the part of his back that he couldn’t reach. Nick tried not to sigh at the thought. Blurting out that they may have used more than a necessary amount of the lotion just seemed like a bad idea. 

“So I’m not the model of self control that you are,” Nick said instead with an impish grin. He didn’t mean it quite the way Monroe would take it, but Monroe didn’t need to know that. “Not everyone can be. Okay, now, before I even start to do this, tell me if you have some kind of special system?” 

He continued opening the ornament boxes and setting the small, glass orbs as well as a few pieces of hand carved wood on the coffee table as he waited for Monroe to launch into a full tilt discussion of how the ornaments were hung by size, color, or weight density. Honestly, he wasn’t completely sure he was up to following the explanation he had been expecting. 

However, Monroe just picked up the closest ornament, without so much as a glance, and placed it on a branch in the middle of the tree. “There’s not any real rhyme or reason to it, I guess... this isn’t like putting up my train set or anything. Hanging these guys up, it’s just putting them wherever they fit best.” 

“Sounds simple enough,” Nick said, nodding as he pulled himself shakily to his feet. He started working on one side of the tree as Monroe worked on the other, and for a few minutes, they worked in tandem with Monroe mostly not commenting on Nick’s questionable ornament spacing --Nick assumed being sick had given him a free pass on that. 

Then, after about ten minutes had gone by, Nick began feeling a little dizzy, and he started to question if he had really been up to the task. He spent a more than necessary length of time crouched over the selection of ornaments, trying his best to look like he was torn between picking a blue and white ball or a wood wolf. When he finally stood back up, blue ornament in hand, he swayed slightly, and Monroe’s hands coiled around his shoulders, steadying him. 

“Easy there, man... hey, why don’t you just hand the ornaments up to me?” Monroe suggested. “That way you don’t have to, you know, keep getting on and off the floor. I’m sure it’s not helping.” 

Knowing full well that he really ought to just agree, Nick decided to blame his fever rather than the strange knot in his stomach, which he felt had nothing to do with chickenpox and everything to do with Monroe’s hands resting on his shoulders, on what he suggested, “Or we could just do it like this,” he waved one hand over Monroe’s “I know you think I don’t take this as seriously as you, and you’re probably right. But I didn’t really get to decorate last year with everything that happened with Juliette, and I don’t want to just be sitting on the floor in my boxers watching someone else do it this year. Okay?” 

“Well, if that’s what you want to do,” Monroe said, looking a little bit puzzled, though his small smile suggested that he really didn’t mind. Monroe’s hands barely left his arms or shoulders as they hung the rest of the ornaments. When they were finished, Nick reflected that Monroe likely could have been done in half the time without his ‘help.’ So, when Monroe suggested that he help with the Christmas village the next day, it left Nick wondering if he wasn’t the only one addicted to touch. But he wasn’t really up to pressing the issue. 

By the end of the week, they had put up just about all of Monroe’s decorations, including the train set, in some form of the way they had done the tree, and Nick, who still wasn’t quite ready to admit just how much he really wanted it, was coming up blank on what else they could do that he would still have Monroe’s hands on him. Certainly, Monroe would keep helping him with the calamine, but that didn’t take particularly long, and something about the freezing nature of the lotion took away from the otherwise gentle nature of Monroe’s soft touches against his back. 

Then, Monroe’s suggestions for what they ought to do on Saturday evening gave Nick the strongest impression that it really wasn’t just him. 

“Now, I know that Hank and Rosalee both thought you might want a little company; I guess, they think you’re probably going a little stir-crazy” Monroe said. Then, starting to sound a little self-conscious, he continued, “Hell, you probably are after a week of doing nothing but putting up snowmen and reindeer with me.” 

“Oh, you don’t count as company anymore?” Nick asked. “I’m offended on your behalf.” 

“I guess I don’t. Anyway, I thought we could make them dinner or something,” Monroe said. “Then we can play cards afterwards. Call it a Christmas party.” 

“Yeah, a Christmas chickenpox party. Has a real ring to it... wait...you want me to help cook?” Nick asked, genuinely surprised. Monroe had always taken his claim to being able to cook as a delightfully hilarious theory. 

“Well, if you want to. If you don’t feel up to it, then don’t worry about it,” Monroe said, looking expectant, like there was more to this than merely cooking. 

That’s when Nick caught on. If they were cooking together, and he was still not really up to, well, standing for any length of time, they could keep up their ridiculous we-want-to-touch-each-other, but neither-of-us-is- actually-going to-admit-it charade. 

“Yeah, sure, I want to. So what are we making?” Nick asked. 

“How about quiche?” Monroe suggested. 

**** 

"You are a terrible teammate," Rosalee whispered as she carded her fingers through Nick's hair. 

"I fell asleep on you, huh?" Nick asked, rubbing at his eyes, trying his best to avoid the pockmarks, as he noticed that he had been moved to the couch. 

"Yeah, on the table, somewhere into your first piece of quiche or second glass of eggnog, but Monroe insisted someone wake you up for this," Rosalee said, handing him his medicine. 

"Oh? Where's he?" Nick asked as he took the tablet and glass of water from Rosalee’s outstretched hand. 

“Hank was not so subtly hinting that our card game might be improved by having some beer on hand, and Monroe said that you guys were out of calamine lotion and bread anyway so he went to the store,” Rosalee said. 

“Of course he did...” Nick said with a soft laugh. “Remind me to tell my partner that he needs to work on his manners.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who fell asleep on his houseguests,” Hank said, grinning down at him from behind the couch. 

“Fair enough, but I don’t see any blisters popping up on your skin either,” Nick said drowsily. 

“Nick, your eyes aren’t even open,” Hank said. “How could you?” Then after a beat, “Come on, Rosalee; he’s out again. Let’s go back to the kitchen.” 

Nick leaned into the couch, too tired to move and, apparently, to fall asleep. He let the sound of the Christmas jazz station he had accidentally stumbled upon, much to Monroe’s delight, wash over him. Then as a slow rendition of _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ came to an end, he picked up the thread of Rosalee and Hank’s conversation. 

“Hank, for the last time, we agreed. We can’t interfere,” Rosalee said. “Besides, if we do, we won’t know who won the bet.” 

Interfere with what, Nick wondered, intrigued. 

“I just thought _one of them_ would have done something by now,” Hank said. “It’s just so obvious to everyone else. I thought for sure this would do it.” 

“I don’t know how it didn’t. I don’t know how they don’t see it,” Rosalee said. “I really don’t. I’ve had customers who’ve never met them see them leaving the spice shop and ask me how long they’ve been together.” 

Wait...were they talking about him?... and Monroe? 

“I don’t know why I bother with this bet anymore. I really thought this would do it. But I thought for sure one of them would break when we pointed out that Nick hasn’t even thought about looking for somewhere else to live,” Hank said. “He’s lived here for going on a year now, and he’s never seemed happier. I’d say the same of Monroe, but I didn’t really know him before Nick. It’s domestic bliss though, if you ask me.” 

“It is. I still can’t believe that a _detective_ hasn’t worked out what’s right in front of him,” Rosalee said. “Monroe, I understand. But Nick. I really think he’s going to put the pieces together.” 

“My money’s still on Monroe making the first move. I still think he just started helping Nick out because he had a crush on him, even if he’d never admit it. But, oh, I’ve probably told you this before, but you should have seen the pair of them the first time I came over here. We were just asking for Monroe’s help with a watch we’d found on a victim, and the way they were acting, you would have thought the two of them were having an affair or something,” Hank said. “I know now it was just because Nick didn’t want me to find out about all this Grimm and Wesen stuff, but then, I didn’t know what to think.” 

“They aren’t half as subtle as they think they are,” Rosalee said. “The worst part being that they don’t even realize what they’re covering up now is just their feelings for each other.” 

“How much they are already in a relationship and don’t know it is damned impressive,” Hank agreed. 

Nick’s chest tightened as the truth of that statement seeped in. 

“Hey guys, I can hear you,” Nick shouted. He thought maybe he ought to tell them that they shouldn’t have made a bet on this, or at least shouldn’t have mentioned it within earshot of him. But he found he didn’t really care all that much. “And you’re right. You’re completely right.” 

Rosalee and Hank slowly crept back into the living room. Rosalee sat down on the edge of the coffee table as Hank sat down at Nick’s feet. 

“Would you have ever realized if you hadn’t just heard us?” Rosalee asked, her expression pinched in uncertainty. 

“I think I was starting to realize it on my own,” Nick said truthfully. “It’s been a little odd between us this week.” 

“So are you going to do something about it?” Hank asked. 

“Well, if you guys aren’t completely against matchmaking...” Nick said, gesturing for them to lean in conspiratorially. 

“Nick, I don’t even think that counts as matchmaking,” Hank said, pulling back with a laugh. “I think that counts as hanging.” 

“It really doesn’t,” Rosalee said, shaking her head.

“Well, I can’t do it,” Nick said. “I’ll end up huddled up on the floor by the door.” 

“Fair enough,” Hank said, clapping his hand against Nick’s back. “We’ll help you out, Romeo.” 

“Yeah, you better. Shame on you, not betting on your own partner,” Nick said. 

About ten minutes later, when they heard Monroe making his way up the walkway outside, snow crunching beneath his feet, Hank hurried out to take the groceries from him. 

Then, as Monroe continued watching Hank quizzically as he headed for the backdoor, Nick pulled the front door open for him. 

“Nick...? Uh...what are you doing...not on the couch?” Monroe asked, dusting snow off his coat. 

“I got Hank and Rosalee to help me put up one last decoration,” Nick said as he pointed up. He watched the falling snow for a moment as he waited for Monroe’s full attention to come to him, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

He tensed and held his breath, hoping he wasn’t wrong about this, as Monroe took in the mistletoe at the top of the doorframe. Monroe looked uncertain for a moment, but then he smiled brightly, his cheeks flushing red. He wrapped his arms around Nick and pulled him in for a kiss long enough that Nick started feeling a little literally weak-kneed. 

“Monroe,” Nick said, a little breathlessly. “I...we should go back inside.” 

“Right, yeah,” Monroe said, gripping Nick’s shoulders and steering him back towards the couch where he sat down next to him. “Are you okay?” 

“Perfect,” Nick said, and though the way he was letting his head loll against Monroe’s shoulder sort of suggested that wasn’t completely true, he thought it was. 

“Oh, do you actually want the mistletoe hung up there?” He asked after a minute. 

“It certainly adds a little extra charm. But it is a little off-center,” Monroe said, glancing back at the door. “We’ll have to fix it later.” 

“You did not just say that,” Nick said laughing. “Oh, can you let Rosalee know I’m glad she bet on the right guy?” 

“Um sure. Is this supposed to make sense to me?” Monroe asked. 

“Probably best that it doesn’t, actually,” Nick said. “So... to be continued when we don’t have company?” 

“To be continued when you don’t have chickenpox, Nick. Man, that kiss about took it out of you,” Monroe said. Then he leaned down and kissed Nick on the forehead. “But I’ve really wanted to do that all week.” 

A short while later, the game of cards apparently given up for lost without Nick’s involvement, Rosalee, Hank, and Monroe joined him in the living room to watch _White Christmas_. Nick curled up against Monroe, finding that it was all he really wanted. Then he smiled to himself at Rosalee’s amused glances and Hank’s encouraging thumbs up, all of which went unnoticed by Monroe, “Merry Christmas, guys.”


End file.
